


Seisou Haregi

by SadakoTetsuwan



Series: Kuroi Eri, Shiroi Eri [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, But if I don't post this now I'll never get past the sad, Eventual Happy Ending, Genji does in fact have clothes, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, THIS WILL CONTINUE, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan
Summary: Not everybody makes it back every time.Everyone can't help but think 'We should have been prepared for something like this'  as they look through their closets, searching for something to wear to a memorial for the fallen Jesse McCree.Hanzo knows exactly what to wear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Haregi** (晴れ着) - formal kimono (in contrast to fudangi, casual wear)  
>  **Seisou** (正装) - full ceremonial kimono, including kimono for weddings, coming-of-age, and funerals of close family members.
> 
> A glossary of relevant kimono terms will be found at the end!

No one had seen either hide or hair of Hanzo for two days except for his brother. Not since he returned from his mission.

Not since finding out McCree had never returned from his.

 

It had been nearly two weeks since the mission in Buenos Aires had gone from bad to worse; they’d lost contact with McCree, and Angela was reading no vital signs from his biometric implants—which at the very least meant his arm was severely damaged. More worrisome was the silence from his comm. As the days passed, even Tracer lost her optimism. The number of times she’d said ‘He’s got out of scrapes worse than this before’ and ‘He’s bound to make contact any day now’ had slowly tapered off as the days crawled by without boisterous laughter and jingling spurs.

She’d been pumping herself up to reassure Hanzo, to repeat her mantra of ‘Any day now’ with her best practiced smile, but as she had watched Genji and Angela lead him inside, shell-shocked as silent tears streamed down his face and his legs wobbled and his hands trembled and everything about him seemed ready to fall to pieces at any moment, the words caught in her throat like barbed wire. Tracer had sat incredibly still as the little knot of mourners passed, her knees pulled up to her chest, the ridge of her chronal accelerator digging into her thighs as a reminder that _she_ was alive— _she_ could see Emily any time she wanted to, but Hanzo... Her own tears finally fell as Hanzo’s anguished sob echoed down the hall, followed by the heavy sound of his metal knees striking the floor as his last fraying threads of control snapped and left him with nothing.

Genji had stopped by every few hours since then to offer Hanzo tea, senbei, and soup. He needed to keep up his strength.

“Brother, you have to eat,” he implored softly, setting the plate on the nightstand next to the too-empty bed every time. Hanzo didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. But every time Genji came in, it seemed Hanzo was holding something new. Jesse’s pillow. A serape. A well-worn flannel shirt. And every time, the old item had been meticulously returned to it’s place, as if it’s owner would notice it had been moved when he came home. Sometimes, his cheeks would be stained, his eyes blankly turned toward the floor. Other times, his face was buried in the object, trying to surround and fill himself with all that was left of Jesse.

Genji returned again at 7:30, a cup of hot tea and a bowl of rice in hand. Hanzo laid on the bed, his puffy red-rimmed eyes barely peering over the pillow he held to his face as he slowly flicked through the photos of McCree on his phone—Genji never would have guessed that Hanzo would take so many snapshots, but from the looks of it, he had hundreds.

“You should eat, brother,” Genji said softly, clearing the cold cups out of the way to place the fresh tea close at hand. “...We have been arranging for a memorial. We would appreciate your help, if you are able.”

Hanzo’s thumb paused in it’s swiping, somehow managing to find tears he hadn’t yet shed. It was a very unflattering photo of Jesse—the angle was far too low, and his mouth was hanging open as he slept, his head resting on Hanzo’s bare chest. But Hanzo’s hand was toying with Jesse’s thick chestnut hair, and clear on his finger was a gold band. The first snapshot he’d taken that night after Jesse’s casual proposal.

A choked sob left Hanzo as he hid his face in the pillow again, clutching it tightly and curling up in a trembling little ball.

“Hanzo,” Genji called softly, resting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “ _You don’t have to come out. Please, at least drink some tea while it’s still hot,_ ” he murmured in smooth Japanese, the tinniness of his electrolarynx less obvious in his native tongue.

“ _Please leave,_ ” Hanzo whimpered, his voice muffled.

“ _I’ll be back later. I’ll do my best to make decisions for you both,_ ” he murmured, giving his shoulder a little squeeze before gathering up the cold cups of tea and slipping out of the room. Hanzo had never liked for anyone to see him cry…

* * *

Genji was clothed.

His robes were clearly Shambali in origin, stiffly starched and heavily decorated with symbols, but next to Zenyatta, it was clear who was the novice. Seeing Zenyatta in his formal Shambali robes was unusual as well, given his rift with the Order, but it seemed appropriate. He and Genji had debated wearing religious symbols to a memorial for a man who had never held back about his skepticism, but Zenyatta had rested his heavy hand on Genji’s shoulder and reminded him the memorial was not to comfort McCree—his peace had already been found. Surely, Angela would have her rosary, and Ana and Fareeha had risen early for salat.

“Hey, lookin’ good,” Hana said, giving Genji a sad smile as she waited at the end of the hall. Her black dress was somehow both reserved and chic, with an elegant neckline and fashionable darts and style lines—clearly, the dress hadn’t been made with a memorial in mind, but her black stockings and demeanor managed to make it work.

“Thank you,” Genji said, looking down at his stiff silk. It was a rich burgundy, with only a few hints of warm saffron gold appearing beneath. Zenyatta’s were almost the opposite, and had faded considerably with age and wear. He took a steadying breath and knocked at Hanzo’s door for what felt like the ten thousandth time. “Brother? It is time…”

The door stood closed for several long moments before sliding open to reveal the solemn form of Hanzo. He was dressed in an elegant habutae itsutsu-kuromontsuki kimono, with a matching haori bearing the Shimada crests hanging all the way to his knees. His hakama were stiff and formal, the thin black and white stripes blending into gray at even a short distance, the tufts of his haori himo a lone splash of white against all the unbroken black dripping from his shoulders.

Both brothers held back gasps as they looked at each other. Hanzo was struck with another sudden pang of loss at seeing Genji wear colors so reminiscent of McCree. Genji, too, felt the loss as he took in Hanzo’s formal mourning kimono, surprised that he happened to have such an ensemble on hand.

“…Let’s go,” Hanzo sighed, his voice broken and scratchy from disuse.

Hana moved to his side and took his arm, giving him a little squeeze as they slowly shuffled toward the common area, her patent leather Mary Janes the loudest footfalls in the hall.

The common room was filled with flowers and candles and brightly colored streamers and solemn black ribbons—as much a collision of cultures as anything else in Overwatch. Ana and Fareeha sat toward the back of the room, Fareeha’s hair covered for once as they murmured softly in Arabic. Angela and Lúcio conferred quietly, both standing near the entrance to the room. The shorter man was the first to notice the arrival of Hanzo’s entourage, his usual smile missing.

“Hey Archer—Hanzo,” he corrected quickly, reaching up and squeezing Hanzo’s shoulder. From so close, Hanzo could see that Lúcio had made no attempt at drying his tears, “Meus pêsames.”

“Obrigado,” Hanzo sighed. He didn’t know much Portuguese beyond what was called out at some of his favorite childhood restaurants, but he went with his gut instinct that thanks were probably in order.

“Hanzo,” Angela began, “You look…” She hesitated to say he looked well—he certainly didn’t. He looked like a man who had just lost the love of his life, a man who was late to grieving the loss that the rest of them had already been feeling, a man desperately holding himself together. “…You look very elegant,” she said, giving him a tentative and somewhat awkward hug. She couldn’t be sure of how delicate some of his accouterments might be, after all.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Hanzo said softly, hugging her a little more fully.

“I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you,” she began, “I’m just…so glad you and Jesse found each other,” Angela continued, her voice breaking.

“Come, Angela,” Genji said, taking her arm and guiding her toward the table where Reinhardt and Torbjörn were sitting, the loss just as recent and raw to them. Hanzo let out another quiet sigh, his fingers dipping into his sleeve and withdrawing an old, worn string of juzu, holding them loosely as he and Hana quietly approached the memorial portrait, surrounded by white mums and pungent marigolds and votive candles and sticks of sandalwood incense. It was an older photo, from before Hanzo had met him—his shoulder still bore the Blackwatch emblem, his face had fewer lines, and his beard was a bit neater, but that same cocky, relaxed attitude radiated from his handsome face.

“It was the nicest picture we could find,” Hana murmured, looping her arm more securely around Hanzo’s and holding onto him, chewing on the inside of her lip. “We didn’t want to have the memorial until everybody was…back…” she murmured, her throat closing up. She’d lost friends and comrades to the Omnic attacks back home, and there had been plenty of close calls since she started hanging around with Overwatch, but Jesse had always seemed invincible. He’d been in Overwatch longer than she’d even been alive, taught her all sorts of tricks in the field, met her demands for kimchi tacos and a Player 2 at 3 AM—it didn’t seem real that he could be gone. She hid her face in the wide sleeve of Hanzo’s haori, doing her best to channel the sobs she wanted to let out into smaller, more manageable tears.

Hanzo’s other hand rose, gently resting on Hana’s back. Jesse had gotten along with her swimmingly, but he’d always felt a strained affection for Hana; she reminded him very strongly of Genji in his youth, for better or worse, and her age clearly showed even though her skill in combat was easily beyond her years. But this Hana was one he wasn’t used to seeing—the one that was still, undeniably, innocent and human.

“C-can I sit and pray with you?” she asked, hiccuping quietly. She wasn’t particularly religious, but it was the only thing she could think to do.

“Please, do,” Hanzo replied, “You are family to us,” he said softly, giving her a little squeeze. The two sank to their knees slowly, Hanzo carefully looping the long string of beads between his hands, Hana simply pressing hers together and bowing her head, her shoulders trembling.

Genji and Zenyatta each quietly drifted through the room, murmuring softly with each little knot of mourners before slowly drifting off again, offering quiet solace.

“It’s such a shame,” Tracer said, holding Emily’s hand tightly as Genji slowly approached and Mei dabbed at her eyes—she’d long taken off her glasses. “There’s no closure without a proper burial, is there? As if this wasn’t hard enough for him…”

“I hate to say it, but…” Mei began, looking at Hanzo’s rigid back. He seemed oddly composed—it must have been the meditation. “…I think Hanzo was prepared for this. He had proper clothes for a funeral ready…”

“That’s so upsetting,” Emily murmured, giving Tracer’s hand a squeeze.

Genji stood frozen, a sharp pain digging into his chest as cruel realization clawed its way into his mind.

“No,” he croaked softly, the pain of the loss emerging once again. “No…Hanzo was not prepared for this.” His gaze drifted across Hanzo’s white-thonged setta, his striped hakama, the hurriedly attached black collar peeking out at the nape of his neck—how had he not realized it before now? Hanzo hadn’t bought this kimono for a funeral.

He’d bought it for a wedding.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Itsutsu-kuromontsuki** (五黒紋付) - lit. 'black with five attached crests', the most formal ceremonial kimono for men or women. (Functionally, when the term 'kuromontsuki' is used, it is understood to refer to a full formal men's ensemble containing this type of kimono, a matching haori, and hakama, typically worn for weddings and other formal occasions--describing the number of crests specifies the kimono only)  
>  **Habutae** (羽二重) - (also seen as 'habutai' or 'habotai' in the West) a flat woven silk, used for formal and ceremonial kimono due to it's sobriety.  
>  **Haori** (羽織) - A kimono jacket. Held shut by haori-himo (羽織紐), a pair of tufted cords.  
>  **Hakama** (袴) - Kimono pants. When worn with a haori, this constitutes a men's formal ensemble; women may wear either hakama or haori with kimono, but not both at the same time.  
>  **Setta** (雪駄) - The most formal men's zouri, traditionally made of tatami.
> 
> Given that black is the most formal 'color' for kimono, the only difference between a traditional men's wedding kimono and a men's mourning kimono is a black or gray collar on the juban (the underrobe).
> 
> The happy ending will be a separate work because while it's _definitely_ coming (now that I've got the sads out of me, it's time to bring out the happy), both it and this fic can stand on their own as individual stories.


End file.
